


Shards and Hearts

by Astralune



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Humor, World of Warcraft: Legion Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12815760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astralune/pseuds/Astralune
Summary: Who knew that Xe'ra would write such terrible self-insert fanfiction about her and Illidan?





	1. Page 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by some friends insisting that Xe'ra had *definitely* written bad fanfic about her and Illidan getting together, and thus, a monster was born. I make no apologies.

 

 

Zonya heard a noise suspiciously like apoplexy bellowing from Cail’s office, and poked her head through the doorway. “Is everything alright?” she asked cheerfully.

 He looked up from the thick tome in front of him. “Hmm? Oh. It’s this novel. _Shards and Hearts._ Remember that cache of relics that was found in that one tower Xe’ra insisted get captured? Buried in it was this.” He closed the book, then held it up and waggled it for emphasis. “It got forwarded to me, with the standard sort of hogswash about how I should publish it, despite the missing pages.”

 She entered the room, her curiosity piqued. “An ancient Draenei holy work, perhaps?” She peered at his face a moment. “How bad is it?” She asked, a sense of dread creeping upon her,

 “It’s absolutely horrid,” Cail said.

 “It can’t be that bad,” Zonya replied.

 “I'll bet you a weekend at a tropical beach for two that it _is._ ”

 “You're on,” she said, grinning.

 Cail held out the tome across his desk to her. “Pack that bikini I like,” he said, grinning back.

 -----

**Page 1**

_It was night-time, as Azeroth reckoned such things, when she shot like a bolt of holy fire across the sky. When she streaked through the atmosphere, burning bright and radiant._

_When she crashed into sod and dirt, helpless and alone._

_But do not fret, gentle reader, for her fated destiny is at hand._

Illidan was brooding.

 At least, that’s what everyone else, currently inside the large common area grown out of the giant tree a few hundred feet behind him, would say. _Illidan’s brooding. He’s dark and mysterious, and broods a lot, with his shirt off,_ they’d say, mockingly.

 They didn’t understand him. They didn’t understand at all.

 Well, it wasn’t the first burden he’d suffered to bear, nor would it be the last. Let them have their celebrations, he thought - _he_ would consider their next move, here in silence.

 Well, mostly silence. He could hear his _brother_ , Malfurion, delivering some saccharine speech back there somewhere. He tried to drown it out, and looked up at the sky.

 Which is why he saw it, streaking across the sky. As it passed the treeline, a muffled thud could be heard - it hadn’t crashed too far from here.

 It could be a threat, Illidan thought, glancing back again at the partying men and women back at the tree. But they won’t take it seriously. They don’t _understand!_

 He looked back in the direction of the crash. It would be up to him, then, to ensure their safety. As always.

 The green tattoos burning bright across his bare chest, he set off into the forest.

 -----

 The crater was small, only a dozen feet across and just clipping a tree at the far edge, and he stared at what was at the centre.

 She looked like a Draenei, though not like any he had seen before. Golden tattoos adorned her perfect skin, an intricate mirror of the artistry in his own. She wore a tiara that seemed a crown, to his sight, and a thin, simple dress that somehow looked ornate on her. Her legs are crossed beneath her, and her weight rests on her hands, planted firmly into the ground, and framing her large breasts. A single cut marred her cheek, bright red against purple.

  _Elune,_ she was beautiful, though he wouldn’t admit that.

 Instead, he grunted. “Was that you that fell from the sky?” he asked roughly.

 She looked up at him, and gasped. Her eyes burned gold, and she looked awed. Well. He _was_ Illidan Stormrage, after all. It was about time someone recognized him as worthy of awe.

 “I…” she tried to speak, delicately. “I am… yes.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, I am the one who fell from the sky.” She pulled a gentle hand to her full chest.

 “I am known as Zeraa.”

 -----

 She didn’t remember much, not from before waking here. It was like a kind of haze in her mind, when she tried to recall. She was disappointed that she couldn’t answer many of the questions this stern, brooding - _shirtless -_ man was asking her. She found she wanted to impress him, and was surprised by the strength of the feeling.

 “I have answered your questions as best I can,” she trilled softly, blinking up at him. “Will you tell me your name?”

 He glared at her, and it sends a shiver down her spine, but from some deep wellspring she found the strength to hold his gaze. “I am Illidan Stormrage,” he finally intoned.

 “Illidan,” she repeated, a smile curving her lips at the name. “I _promise_ I am no threat to you. But I seem to be in need of a place to stay…”

 His eyes burned, their ferocity almost scaring her, as he looked her down. “I have no reason to trust you, Draenei,” he snarled. Then, his expression seemed to soften - or maybe she just imagined it. “Come with me. I will tend to your wounds.”

 She held out a hand to him, and with a grunt, he moved to help her to her hooves.


	2. Page 35

She looked up as the door slams open, and Illidan came storming out in a rage. “Pathetic!” he snarled. “Their lack of vision _blinds_ them!” She hastened to stand up, to hurry over to him, nervous.

 He seemed to calm down at her approach, something she has noticed tended to occur, as if her mere presence soothed him. “It is alright,” she told him, daring - after a moment’s hesitation - to comfortingly stroke his bare arm with her palm. His head snapped around at the touch, but he subsided without comment.

 “They do not understand,” he grumbled in that gravelly voice of his. “They think our work is done. They think _nothing_ of the costs to make it this far, of the costs to come. The threat is not gone. Sargeras _will_ return.”

 “His armies are legion,” she hastened to agree.

 He looked across at her, and for a brief, shining moment, he actually smiled. She wasn’t sure that he could! A bright warmth filled her, even as his smile waned.

 “You _do_ understand, don’t you,” he mused.

 Her eyes went wide. “You have paid much,” she said. “You have suffered for every one of your kin, to bring them the victories of your campaign.” She gave him a sad smile, hinting at the depth of her feeling. “None have sacrificed as you have. I just wish they all could see it, as I do!” She stomped a hoof in irritation.

 He took her hand in his, and squeezed gently before releasing it. “I have sacrificed _everything,_ ” he said. “But it helps, to have… someone… who understands.”


	3. Page 49

He stomped through his home, trying to burn some of his frustration and anger off.  _ Damn _ his brother! Had he not done his time? For ten thousand years he had been imprisoned, and still they ignored the obvious threats, merely because he, Illidan Stormrage, would act on them?

He had flung open the door to his guest room and stomped in before he realised where he was.

In front of the window sat the Draenei - sat Zeraa, he thought, some of his anger dulling at her name - on a stool, the warm sunlight from the window behind casting her into silhouette. She was…. Was that a  _ paintbrush _ in her hand? And she was before an easel, and canvas, he noted belatedly.

She noticed his entry, of course, and with a squeak she bolted upright on her stool. “Illidan!” she called joyfully, and again he felt the fury in his heart recede. He prowled around the room, but she moved the canvas from his line of sight. “Did the meeting with your brother and his wife not go well?” she asked.

“What are you hiding?” he asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” she trilled soothingly. “I- it’s nothing.”   
  
“Zeraa,” he asked again.

Her face tendrils writhed, and she looked downcast, embarrassed. “It’s, well…” Reluctantly, she placed the canvas flat against the easel, letting him see.

Illidan stopped dead in his tracks. It’s a portrait, of  _ him _ , drawn like a courageous hero, bare-chested, hair storm-tossed, his expression handsome and roguish. His right hand rests on the head of a battle-hardened mistsaber, and behind him stands an army innumerable, lit by a storm-tossed sky.

“I… I wanted to thank you,” she explained in a small voice. “You, you have done so much for me since I arrived here, and I have… not been able to repay you in kind. I thought maybe, this one thing I…” She glanced at him. “You do not like it. I will be rid of it.” She stood up, and moved to grab the canvas frame.

“No,” he rasped, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. “No,” he repeated. “I… do not hate it.” He looks her in her golden eyes, their glow a match for his own in green. “It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

She looked at him a moment, then let out a breath - half sigh, half laugh. “Surely you exaggerate. It is only a portrait, and surely one such as you has had  _ many _ nice gestures done for your benefit by others?”

He is silent for a long moment. “They have not,” he said at last. Letting go of her arm, he turned from her, his face only visible in profile as he looked over his shoulder towards her. “Finish your painting. Please,” he asked, voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “I would… treasure it.”

Then, he fled from the room.


	4. Page 68

Lorlathil was a busy place, and she had learnt that Illidan wasn’t fond of crowded places - but she had wanted to see more of Azeroth, and he had been willing to indulge her. Still, she found herself looking at the sky wistfully, as much as about the bustling village. Some part of her, she felt, somehow  _ knew _ what it was to fly amongst the stars, to bask in their light and filter it around her.

She glanced at Illidan, his hand brushing against hers as they walked. Of course, there was light to bask in down here, too.

“They’re looking at you,” he rasped softly, for only her to hear.

“What?” She looked around, but could not catch anyone looking at her. Surely they would be looking at Illidan himself? He was a great hero, a saviour of all at great sacrifice, and she was… she was…

Well, she was Zeraa.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Why would they look at me?”

“Your golden markings,” he noted. “You never did tell me where they are from. Other Draenei don’t have them.”

“You never asked!” she teased him.

He grunted, turning to look away down the path. No other would, but she could tell he was bruised by the remark.

“I am sorry,” she trilled softly. “I do not remember much, but I will tell you what I can.” Now that she looked around again, she  _ could _ spot the odd child or two pointing at her.

“I am Draenei, yes, but I am  _ Lightforged, _ ” she explained. “Blessed by the sacred Naaru, the divine and righteous leaders, guardians, and guides of the Army of the Light, sanctified with great and worthy purpose.”

Illidan looked at her, amazed and impressed. “That is amazing,” he said, “and impressive. Surely you have done many great things to be blessed with such a gift.”

“I do not know,” she said sadly. “I do not remember.”

They walked along a curated garden path, towards the outskirts of Lorlathil. “Your markings,” Illidan began, and he sounded almost nervous to her - but no, that was not possible. “They are not dissimilar to my own.”

“I had noticed them,” she admitted. How could she not? He was so handsome, and they accentuated his bare chest so  _ very _ well, jagged arcs cut across his skin.

He nodded. “Mine came at great cost and sacrifice. They are part of the price I pay, every day, for the power to save my people. I wear them proudly, and would do so again, were the choice once more before me.”  They passed a carefully tended flower bed. “But they scar me, Zeraa, while your markings only make you the more beautiful.”

She felt a warm glow within her chest. Illidan thought her beautiful? Her heart beat faster, and she found herself reaching to take his hand in hers, amazed all the more that he did not shy away. She stopped their walk, and turned to face him directly.

“These scars,” she trilled softly, letting her free hand come up to trace a single finger along the trail they mark across his chest, “are their own beauty, for those who have the grace to see.” She stared into his burning green eyes, willing him to see her sincerity. “And they make you all the more handsome,” she said, almost demurely.

“I…” he rasped, appearing lost for words. “I don’t know what to say, Zeraa.”

“Then do not speak,” she said, leaning towards him and pressing her lips to his in a slow, gentle kiss.


	5. Page 94

The meeting was wrapping up, and Illidan was about to leave, when Malfurion spoke. “Please, Illidan, stay a moment.”

Grumpily, he sat back down, staring across the table at his brother and at Tyrande, who sat at his side. She had never liked him, and after all he had done for her too.

Huh. The usual surge of irritation he felt at being reminded of that felt dulled somehow. When had that started happening? The last few weeks, he realised.

It took a few minutes for everyone else to file out of the room, blathering on to each other about shipping and economics and other such rot. The doors slammed home, and Illidan turned to glare at his brother. “Well?” he demanded after a moment of silence.

“How are you feeling, brother?” Malfurion asked, while Tyrande smirked at him.  _ What is this about, _ he wondered.

“I was better before you started wasting my time even more,” he growled. “And what is it that you find so amusing?” he threw at Tyrande.

Malfurion sighed. “People have been talking, Brother,” he said. “About you, and… about that odd Draenei you’ve taken in.”

Illidan bristled. “You make her sound like a stray pet. And people-” he glared at Tyrande. “-should mind their own business. We have a Legion to defeat.”

Tyrande stifled a silly giggle, and Malfurion frowned at his brother. “That is precisely our concern, Illidan. We have a legion to defeat, and you have found….” He shrugged. “If not a stray pet, then what? Someone willing to tolerate your company? Did you bribe her, Illidan? Is she perhaps very confused, falling from the sky?” Beside him, Tyrande burst out in snorting laughter, unable to contain herself.

“Did she hit her head  _ very hard? _ ” Tyrande asked in a voice getting higher pitched with each word.

“We’ve all seen her, Illidan, and even  _ I _ have to admit she’s very pretty on the eyes,” Malfurion added with as straight a face as he could manage. “I’m just concerned that maybe she’s confused you with literally any other person in a thousand mile radius.” A twitch of his lips is the only tell that he’s enjoying this.

“ _ Enough _ ,” Illidan snarled, getting up from his seat and twirling his cape around his shoulders dramatically. “I do not expect you to understand -  _ either  _ of you. You never understood me. You never even tried. I have sacrificed  _ everything _ for our people, and still you refuse to recognise it.  _ Zeraa _ recognises it, and appreciated me for who I am.” Even as he said it, he realised that every word was true.

He left the room, their laughter ringing in his ears, and almost barged into Zeraa as he left the meeting room.

She reached out to grab him to steady herself, before looking up at him, tears marring the golden glow of her eyes and her perfect skin.

“I heard what your family said,” she admitted in a small, broken voice. “I… I do not want to cause trouble for you. You have done so much, and I have done so little…” She reached to wipe her nose with her hand, sniffling. She took a deep breath. “I will go. I will leave, and I will no longer be a- a- a problem,” she finished, breaking into a full cry.

“Zeraa!” he cried protectively, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling her to his bare chest. “Please, no. I… I do not  _ want _ you to go. Malfurion may be my brother by blood, but that  _ does not matter. _ We’ve never gotten along. And Tyrande…” He paused a moment, feels the idea in his head for a moment, and finds it is true. “Tyrande means  _ nothing  _ to me. Not anymore. Do you understand, Zeraa?” He reached to cup her cheek, and looked her beseechingly in her golden eyes.

She looked up at him, tears running down her face, and saw only love - his love for her - in his burning green eyes. “Yes,” she said, weeping now for joy. “Yes, I  _ understand _ you.” She pressed her head to his shoulder, her nose pressed to his neck, and stood with Illidan.

Illidan and her, against the world.

She made a decision.

“Let us go,” she asked. “I want to be alone with you.”

“Alone with-?” He could tell, light bless him. He knew her so well. And she him. With another of those oh so rare, far too fleeting smiles, he bent, and - inciting a yelp from her - he picked her up, one arm curled around her back, the other hooked under her knees, and carried her down the hallway.

“I’d never imagined,” he said as they pass doorways and hallways, “that I would find someone like you, Zeraa,” he said, and only she could hear the amazed bewilderment in his voice.

“And I,” she answered in kind, “never thought to find one like you on all of Azeroth,” craning her neck to press a kiss to his throat as they reach his room. She kicked with a leg, and knocked the door open, so Illidan could carry them over more thresholds than one.

Illidan lowered her to his bed, where she reclined provocatively for his view. He worked the fastenings on his pants, skilfully removing what little clothing he wore. The green tattoos  _ did _ go all the way down, she noted with wicked delight, and he was more than generously gifted below the belt. She felt a smile tug at her lips, even as she worked to unlace the bodice that strained to contain her own impressive assets.

“Come,” she said, seductive and alluring. “Show me this Kaldorei thing you call  _ love. _ ”


	6. Page 102

“Please,” she cried out, as he thrusts, filling her, “More, Illidan, I’m going to- I’m- I’m-”

With a rising moan, she shuddered around him, feeling herself shatter to pieces in bliss and release. She splintered, breaking into shards of pure joy as she feels him roar, their ecstasies commingling and cresting together, as they rode each other down into joyous release and contentment.

He collapsed atop her, rolling to the side as he does, leaving them both panting for breath on his bed. 

It was many long minutes before either of them spoke.

“Is this what it feels like?” Illidan asked at last.

“What, my love?” Zeraa asks.

He looked over at her tiredly, yet radiant - as is she. “To not suffer,” he answered.


	7. Page 123

Lorlathil still bustled as ever, but somehow to her eyes, it looked brighter, lovelier. Perhaps it had something to do with Illidan, who walked arm in arm with her. He still didn’t smile - in public, at least - but she knew him. She could tell he was smiling inside. And she knew that he knew how happy he made her, too. Ever since that fateful day, when they had made love to each other, the tattoos on his skin had begun shifting in colour, becoming gold like her own. It had been like a balm for his soul, an ease to his suffering, and sacrifice.

Deep down, somehow she knew, they were destined for this.

Across the village green, she saw Malfurion, his brother, sitting morosely at a table. She pointed towards him, and glanced at Illidan, raising a perfect eyebrow.

“You  _ really _ want me to talk to him?” he asked gravelly, before sighing. “Alright. Only for you, Zeraa, my love.” They made their way towards the Archdruid.

“Has there been any word?” Illidan asked, as Malfurion looked up from the several empty mugs strewn before him.

“None,” Malfurion practically wailed. “She’s gone! Oh, Tyrande, my beloved…” He sobbed into his mugs.

“She knew the risks,” Zeraa said, “when she decided to sneak off into the legion camps alone. She should not have done so.” She tsks softly. “I would have advised her not to.”

Illidan nodded sagely at Zeraa’s wisdom. “Tyrande was never one to listen to advice,” he rasped.

Malfurion glared up at them both. “Oh, go on and  _ gloat _ , you two. I know you want to!”

Zeraa pulled a hand to her full chest in shock, and Illidan looked ill at the thought. “No, Brother. Why would I gloat? Now you know something of suffering, too.” Together, Zeraa and Illidan turned, and continued on their walk.


	8. Page 156

Aboard the Vindicaar, Illidan and Zeraa stand, elegant and supremely confident, commanding in presence and in fact. With Malfurion alternating between drowning in drink and wandering in circles looking for Tyrande,  _ something _ had to be done, and so they had done it.

Together, Illidan and Zeraa had commanded the invasion of Argus, and together, they were driving the Legion back. 

Something about all this had felt strangely familiar to Zeraa. Had felt  _ right. _ She glanced over at Illidan, her love. By day, they fought for all the peoples of creation, and by night… well, by night, they shared of each other. Vigorously, and enthusiastically.

She felt a headache coming on, and pressed a hand to her head. Instantly, Illidan was there, asking if she was alright, but it felt like it was coming from far away, down a tunnel.

The last thing she saw before she blacked out was his face.

\-----

She came to gradually, the sound of windchimes in her head. She started, her gaze casting about to find her love.

Illidan, of course, was by her side in a flash. “My love,” he said, and only she could see the fear in his eyes. Fear for her.

“My love,” she replied. “I… I remember,” she said.

“Who you were, before you crashed here?” he asked, understanding instantly.

“Yes,” she said. “I… was a Naaru. I was Xe’ra.”

Illidan blinked at her. “A… Naaru?” He looked confused.

“Yes,” she said. “I… I knew you were there, on Azeroth. That I needed you, and you needed me. That we needed each other.”

“It was destiny,” he agreed.

“But… I think they are calling me back. I think… I think I could be Naaru again.”

Illidan froze. “I see,” he said. She understood he was suddenly terrified. She herself did not know what to do. Surely she should be who she was? But… She looked at Illidan. She loved him. And he her.

She turned, getting up from the cot, and walked to the viewing windows. Azeroth, and her moon, could be seen in the sky. “Curse you, moon!” she cried out in anguish. “Why must you force me to make this choice?” she screamed. “Damnable moon, and Elune, who is definitely not a Naaru! Or maybe a shitty Naaru, but that does not count! And despicable Tyrande, who represents the moon!” She made fists of her hands, and banged them against the window.

“Zeraa,” Illidan rasped softly, and the way he says her name is a balm against her soul. “I… I do not wish for you to go, for I love you. But…” He breaks off, almost unable to continue. Almost.

“But if you  _ must _ go, then you  _ must _ go. I will not,  _ cannot _ stop you. But, please.” He swallowed a sob. “Please. Don’t.”

“You have known suffering,” she whispered through a sheet of tears.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But not like this. Never like this.”

“Alright,” she said. “I will stay, Shard of my Heart.”

Illidan smiled. Only Zeraa understands how he feels.


End file.
